


sorry, wrong number!

by velveitine



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Hale is Not Emotionally Constipated, Derek Hale is a Softie, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, POV Alternating, Post-Nogitsune, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Post-Season/Series 03, Stiles Stilinski Has Nightmares, except kate never kidnaps derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-24 03:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20900894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velveitine/pseuds/velveitine
Summary: Stiles calls Derek by accident in a flurry of post-nightmare hysteria. And then he does it again, completely sane (allegedly, the author adds) and maybe just a little bit on purpose.





	1. healthy distraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for joining me, this is my emotional support ficlet (that i may or may not be using to distract myself from homework and to compensate for my own emotional shortcomings)
> 
> don't fall out of your chair! but for _extremely_ selfish reasons, derek will be capable of empathy in this one

A soft buzzing rouses Derek from a dream he already can’t quite remember, the screen of his phone sending out a soft orange glow from where it sits on his bedside table.

Yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he stretches and reaches across his bed for the phone, still buzzing persistently. He squints into the screen, annoyed when the small digits at the top inform him that it’s ridiculously early in the morning, and bewildered when he’s met with a digital rendition of a face beaming with a wide smile and splattered with moles.

’Stiles :)’ runs across the top of Derek’s screen, followed by a phone number, meaning that sometime when Derek wasn’t paying attention, Stiles had programmed himself into his phone. Derek hesitates, but eventually drags his finger across the bottom of the screen, accepting the call half-heartedly.

Any form of greeting is immediately cut off as Stiles’ voice comes through, hoarse and almost... desperate?

“Oh thank god, I— I wasn’t sure if you were going to answer.”

Derek grunts, partially because of the still-looming delirium of abruptly being woken up and also just because he doesn’t know what else to say. _What could Stiles possibly want that is worth waking him up at ass o’clock in the morning? _He rolls over so he’s facing the windows and lays the phone on the side of his face, hoping Stiles will get to the point, preferably before he naturally slips back asleep.

“I’m really sorry for waking you up so early, I just— I didn’t know who else to talk to.”

Derek offers another affirming grunt, his eyes threatening to drift shut.

“I would talk to my dad about all this, but I don’t want to put more stress on him. He already deals with way more of this supernatural shit than he should, but the nightmares are worse than they were before and I have no clue what to do. And I’m supposed to be the one with the plan, y’know? The one who’s supposed to have it all figured out.”

Derek… doesn’t know what to say? He’s still really out of it but he was barely aware that Stiles was even having nightmares. He does remember noticing at the last pack meeting that Stiles had seemed more lacking in concentration than normal, but he thought that was just Stiles being his unpredictably hyperactive self.

“It’s been a few months but… I don’t know. It’s like I’m still reliving and remembering the days when I wasn’t really me, but as… really vivid, really shitty dreams. Like, I’m remembering the explosion at the station and everything that happened at the hospital and Aiden and—“ Stiles’ voice cracks, “I don’t even know how that’s possible, because I wasn’t even in the same body for Christ’s sake, but it’s happening and it’s just— I can still feel it, y’know? The nogitsune’s hunger for pain, I mean. And I want to be strong for my dad and for you but I feel like I’m fighting a war against my own mind and I’m losing and I just— I’m so exhausted, Scott.”

Derek croaks, “What?”

Silence follows on the other line.

“Derek?” Stiles’ voice pitches.

“Yeah?”

Fabric rustles and despite the mumbled curses Derek can hear on the other side of the line, Stiles’ voice still sounds… fragile. “Shit, Derek. I meant to call Scott. I’m really sorry I must’ve—“

Derek cuts his apology short, “I didn’t know you were having nightmares.”

“Yeah I… I’ve been having them for a while.” Stiles is quieter and Derek can sense the reluctance in his voice. He supposes that Stiles is justified in his hesitance since they aren’t the closest of friends, if you could even call the weird relationship that they’ve built a friendship.

“Since Allison?”

“Well, yeah just— since everything. With the nogitsune.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Derek groans and scrubs a hand down his face.

Stiles lets out a tired huff of resignation, “I don’t know… I guess I just thought you wouldn’t care.”

Derek knows Stiles’ comment isn’t meant to be malicious, but the familiar feeling of guilt stabs at his gut and his mouth turns sour. He tries to brush it off, pushing it aside.

“Does Scott know?”

“Of course he knows, just… not as much, I guess. He’s known since we were kids that I have a bad history of nightmares, but I was planning on giving him the entire briefing of my continuous breakdowns tonight.” Stiles groans over the phone, “You obviously know by now that my attempt was painfully unsuccessful.”

Pushing himself up onto his elbows, Derek peers out one of the many panes of glass that give a view of the city, his phone now in hand. “You in the mood for a small drive around town?”

“Uh—“ Stiles clears his throat, but it seems to have no effect as his voice is just as hoarse as it was before, “why?”

“I find that the fresh air usually helps.”

“Right now?”

“Well, you did just wake me up at one in the morning. It’s the least you could do to pay me back for my minimal services.”

Stiles’ muffled laughter comes through the speaker, “You sound like a moody hooker.”

“Is that a yes?”

Derek rolls up to Stiles’ house fifteen minutes later, barely able to contain a snort when he spots the telltale Batman print pajama shirt and shock of messy bedhead as Stiles clambers out of his bedroom window and somehow manages to get the leg of his plaid pajama pants hooked on the sill. Derek doesn’t forget to tease him about it when he plops down in the Camaro’s passenger seat, his chest heaving.

“That was really smooth. Like, James Bond smooth.” Derek chuckles and puts the Camaro into drive, rolling down the street and turning onto the main road that leads toward the downtown of Beacon Hills.

Stiles mock laughs, “Ha ha,” his face turns serious, his brows furrowing, “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the early-morning offer of an extremely off-brand Derek Hale therapy session, I really do. But… I woke you up from your deep werewolf-y slumber just to bother you with my problems, and I get that maybe you’re not as much of an asshole as I make you out to be in my head sometimes, but honestly, why are you helping me?”

“What? Can’t I be philanthropic once and a while?” Stiles remains eerily silent and his expression blatantly screams ‘_I know there’s something more, something deeper than what you’re letting on_’, and God be damned if he isn’t wrong.

_Shit_.

“Because I know you well enough to be confident that you deserve something better,” _Hell if that isn’t an oversimplification_, ”and as hard as it is to believe, I’ve been where you are now and if it were me, I’d be just selfish enough to want a little good on top of all the bad.”

Stiles studies him, looking slightly skeptical for about ten seconds until he shrugs, “What exactly do you have planned for this little impromptu expedition?”

“I figured we could go grab some quick comfort food and just drive until you feel like going back home.“

“So like... a date?”

Derek rolls his eyes, “No, not a date. You just seem like you need a distraction. Something to take your mind off everything, even if it’s just for an hour or two.”

“I’ve gotta admit, ignoring my many problems for a while does sound tempting…” Stiles chews his lip, “What kind of ‘quick comfort food’ are we talking about here?”

“Curly fries?”

“Oh _hell_ yes.” Stiles raps his fingers on the dash, newly bursting with energy and euphoria at the mere mention of God’s greatest creation.

Stiles (because who would he be if he wasn’t hungry during the ungodly hours of early morning) ends up ordering a double bacon cheeseburger— hold the onions— and a large to-go bag of curly fries that he hesitantly agrees to share, all of which he promises to pay Derek back for later. Derek orders a black coffee and Stiles feels a little bit guilty about it, to which Derek responds by reminding Stiles that he was the one who suggested the entire outing in the first place.

Derek turns the Camaro onto one of the many roads that leads further into the preserve as Stiles rips open the wrapper of his burger, cursing wildly when a few pieces of shredded lettuce go rogue and fly to the ground.

After managing to gather up all the rebellious shreds of lettuce and apologizing frantically about the mess, Stiles bites down into his burger and makes a noise that isn’t that far off from a moan. “Holy shit. This—” he holds the burger up next to Derek’s face, “is a damn good burger. I can’t believe you missed the golden opportunity of eating— no— _experiencing_ this burger. Also, how can you drink _black coffee _this early in the morning? No sugar, not even a little bit of cream? Are you crazy?”

Derek just shrugs.

Once he’s done with his burger, Stiles crumples his wrapper into a ball and discards it in the paper bag sitting at his feet, rolling down the window and sighing in satisfaction as the night air rushing through cools his face and ruffles his hair. He settles against the side of the door and leans his head back against the frame of the window, closing his eyes and letting the fresh air fill his lungs as he slowly wills his body to relax.

“You know, you don’t have to be afraid to open up to me.”

Stiles’ eyes shoot open and land on Derek, “What is that supposed to mean.”

Derek huffs, his eyes straying from the road to give Stiles a sideways glance, “I know that I’m probably the last person you wanted knowing about your nightmares, but I don’t want you to think that just because we’ve had a few… bad encounters in the past that you can’t talk to me about it. I mean, I’m not going to force you or anything, but… all I’m saying is, I’m here. If you need me.”

Stiles stares forward through the windshield, contemplating a dim pinprick of light in the distance with heavy eyes.

“Do you know what lucid dreaming is?”

Stiles can see Derek shake his head in his peripheral.

“It’s basically when you’re aware that you’re dreaming. Sometimes, depending on your level of awareness, you can control your actions and stuff like that while still remaining in a sleep state. I’ve done some extensive research on it and it’s actually pretty interesting, but the nightmares are kind of similar to that. I think I told you before, but it’s like I’m living through the nogitsune’s memories except they’re _scary_ vivid, but even though I know I’m dreaming, I can never control anything because it’s just a memory.”

He pauses, taking a deep, shaky breath.

“It’s just so goddamn exhausting. Not being able to save any of them. And I know that they’re just dreams, so even if I did manage to save someone every once in a while, it wouldn’t change anything. But every time I have to sit and watch someone get hurt, over and over again, it’s like I can sense this… glee in the pit of my stomach. Like I can still feel what the nogitsune felt when it watched them all—”

Stiles lets his head fall back against the headrest. Tears try to spring from his eyes and he’ll admit that talking takes a little bit of the weight off his shoulders, but just thinking about _everything_ makes him feel like he’s drowning, struggling for air and choking back against the control that the nogitsune still holds over him.

When he’s sure that he wont choke out a sob or break down into tears, Stiles looks to Derek.

“You said that you had been where I am now. You meant the nightmares, didn’t you?” Derek clenches his jaw, and even though he was the one that brought it up first, Stiles hopes he hasn’t hit a soft spot, “What happened?”

Derek stays silent for a while, but Stiles can tell from the look on his face that he’s calculating. Carefully picking his words.

“After the fire, with Peter in the condition he was in and my family gone, I felt like I had to escape, so I just… left. Got out of Beacon Hills as fast as I could and ran like hell.” Derek’s voice is surprisingly steady as he speaks.

“Where did you go?”

“New York.” Derek’s knuckles turn white against the steering wheel, “Laura had been living there for a while, but despite the fact that she was old enough to act as my legal guardian, she didn’t have the resources to take care of both of us, so I was placed in foster care until I was 18. By the time I got out, Laura had found a stable job with an old family friend and was able to take me in, but—“

Derek’s eyebrows pull together and his lips form a thin line, “I was a mess. I was still dealing with all the shit that I had pushed down and the feelings that I had ignored. Hell, I forced myself to stay awake as long as I could until I passed out from exhaustion just to avoid falling asleep and reliving the memories I had of the fire.”

“What changed?”

Derek’s eyes flit to Stiles, “I got help. Started going to therapy as often as we could pay for it and just… talked through my issues rather than pushing them to the side and acting like ignoring them would fix everything. I gave myself time to mourn and I realized that I had avoided thinking about the fire because I was afraid to face the reality that I would never see my family whole again. I was afraid to be alone.”

“Well, you’ve got Scotty and Cora and Peter, and I’m betting big money that you’ll be stuck with me forever.”

Derek smiles, “Lucky me.”

Stiles isn’t really sure if Derek is being sarcastic, or if he’s being genuine, but he figures he doesn’t have the mental capacity to address the comment right now.

“We should probably start heading back.” Derek tilts forward in his seat, peering at the moon through the windshield. “It’s getting pretty late. Or early, I guess.”

“Yeah, I should probably go home. It’s a school night.”

Derek snorts, “The fact that school is what you’re worried about at this point is slightly concerning.” Gravel crunches under the tires as Derek does a U-turn. “When does your dad start his shift?”

“In a few hours,” Stiles says, peeking at the clock on his phone’s screen, “Why? Don’t wanna get beat up by the sheriff for whisking his only son off in the middle of the night like some gypsy?”

Derek snorts, “Not particularly, no.”

“Smart man.”

“Well,” Derek starts, “If you ever want to talk or just need a distraction, you have my number.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed! i apologize to anybody who has been following my 'run boy! run' fic, but i needed a bit of a break and have been sitting on this for a while. 
> 
> small update : run boy, run! chapter 6 is out :)
> 
> not to worry, there is more to come! i was going to publish the entire fic as one part, i just so happen to be extremely impatient and decided to post a short snippet to get myself going :)


	2. the offer still stands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrow, next chapter already. like i said, i've had this brewing for a while and never had the motivation to fix it up since i had no actual obligation to post, but now... yeehaw pardner

Stiles is drifting aimlessly, floating past miles of blank white walls agonizingly slow— except, he can’t be floating, because the sound of footsteps against the stark white tile reverberates in his ears, and he’s pretty sure he’s alone. He tries to look behind him to confirm his theory, but his vision smears and his body feels like it’s trying to move through thick murk.

He doesn’t really mean to, but he strays from the middle of the long hallway, distractedly trailing his fingertips across the metal railing mounted on the wall that runs horizontally, parallel to the length of the hallway. Bright LED light strips hang down from the ceiling of boring white ceiling tiles, leading Stiles’ eye to a set of metal double doors that sit only a few feet away from where he stands.

He hadn’t noticed them.

Approaching the doors, he explores the sleek metal with his hands, mildly surprised when his body involuntarily flinches away. Because the door seems to be just that. A door.

His chest begins to tighten and he instinctually tries to back away, but he feels rooted to the spot, like his feet have been glued to the white linoleum. His hands, disobedient of his wishes as ever, push the metal doors open without hesitation, the cold against his fingertips barely registering as he steps out onto soft dirt covered in leaves tinted in an array of greens and yellows.

He turns to his left and realizes the doors are gone, replaced by a somewhat familiar stretch of forest— a section of the path taken by the school’s track team that runs through the preserve. He looks to his right, flinching back when he’s met with the sight of one of the twins looking forward in confusion.

_Oh shit_.

He remembers this. Even if he’d had his metaphorical ass forcibly thrown in the metaphorical co-pilot seat of his own mind, he still remembers. _Vividly_.

_Coach_.

He tries to move his feet, tries to yell or push Coach out of the way, tries to warn him because oh _god_ he’s going to get shot and he’s moving and Stiles thinks he can hear Scott’s muffled scream but his body is unresponsive and it’s like he’s trying to move through molasses and—

The small metal arrow whistles as it zooms through the air, burrowing deep into Coach’s stomach with a sickening squelch and all Stiles can do is stand frozen and watch in horror as he lets out a quiet ‘oh crap’ before his unconscious body thuds to the ground. Scarlet red blossoms around the point of the arrow and deep in his chest, Stiles can feel the feverish sensation of delight.

All Stiles can recall is the feeling of his stomach twisting and the sound of his own scream in his ears before he’s jerking upright in his bed, his entire body drenched in sweat and throat dry like sandpaper. His stomach coils and he hopes for a moment that it’s just the adrenaline and anxiety making him feel like a small person is internally testing his stomach out as a punching bag, but even in the dark, his vision sways and nausea hits him in waves.

He yanks his covers away and stumbles out of his room to the bathroom, tripping over his own feet in the dark and barely smacking the light switch on and making it to the toilet before he’s dry heaving into the bowl.

Tears spring from his eyes and his knees grind against the rough tile flooring of the bathroom as he coughs against the tight feeling in his throat. The disturbing squelch of the arrow sinking itself into Coach’s stomach plays over and over in his mind like a broken record, drowning out the echo of his muffled sobs as they bounce off the walls, bare aside from the vanity mirror, void of any contents other than Stiles’ toothpaste and an old prescription of expired zaleplon: sleeping pills.

With his forehead pressed against the cool plastic of the toilet seat, he closes his eyes and holds his breath, straining until he can hear his dad still snoring in the other room.

He groans and tries to stand as best he can on wobbly legs, avoiding the mirror as he shuffles back into his room, feeling around in the dark to make sure he doesn’t ram his hip into that one damn corner of his desk that always seems to have it out for him. He drops down on his mattress and blindly feels around the table beside his bed, fumbling until his fingertips skirt across familiarly cold metal.

The unexpected brightness of his phone’s screen makes him squint, the numbers across the top not-so-helpfully informing him that it’s _way_ too early for this shit. He unlocks the device and taps on the small phone icon at the bottom of the screen.

His finger hovers over the contact at the top of his ‘Recents’ list and he chews at one of his fingernails, a terrible habit he has had the misfortune of picking up after three years of being in the know about The Creatures That Go Bump In The Night. His eyes slip to another contact, hiding at the bottom of the small portion of the list that’s being displayed on the screen.

Tapping the contact at the bottom, he falls to the mattress so he’s laying on his back and staring blankly up at the ceiling, anxiously fidgeting with a crease in his sheets and listening intently to the ringing coming from his phone’s speaker.

_Please pick up_.

“Hey,” Derek’s voice crackles through, so quiet and _soft_ that Stiles thinks he might melt. _He’ll have to address that specific feeling later_.

“Hi,” Stiles had known what to say last time— seeing as he had been halfway through a hysterical rant meant for a rather different werewolf’s ears— but now, the silence stretches and he’s at a loss for words.

“This is Derek. By the way. I don’t know if you meant to call Scott or…“

“No, I meant to call you.” Stiles holds his breath.

“Oh. Alright, uh,” Derek clears his throat, “are you... okay?”

“Yeah.” He takes a deep breath. _No going back now_. “Could I maybe take you up on your offer from the other night?”

“My offer?”

“You said that if I ever needed it, you could offer a distraction. From the nightmares.” Stiles worries his bottom lip.

Fabric rustles over the phone and Stiles can hear what he guesses is Derek shifting, “You’re home, right? I’ll come get you.”

“No, no Derek it’s fine, I can drive myself. It’s the least I can do since you could be sleeping right now instead of helping my sorry ass.”

Derek makes sure he gets his fair share of grumbling in, but he finally agrees— mind you, it’s after a few minutes of trying to argue that Stiles is probably tired and isn’t in the right mindset to drive.

_Hasn’t stopped him before_.

Tiptoeing down the stairs and slipping out of the door after grabbing a sweatshirt and a pair of shoes, Stiles hops into the jeep and wrenches the shift stick into neutral, rolling down the driveway and out onto the street. The drive is quicker than he ever remembers it being and he easily sidles up next to the curb in front of Derek’s apartment building.

“Okay Stilinski,” Stiles lightly smacks both of cheeks and lowers his face until his forehead is resting against the steering wheel, “You can do this. Deep breaths.”

Stiles hops from the jeep, careful not to slam the door too loud, and makes his way up to the loft, cursing Derek’s building for not having an operating elevator the entire way up.

He approaches the loft’s door and lightly raps against the metal, hoping it’ll be loud enough for Derek to hear.

_Who is he kidding, the dude could probably hear a dog whistle in the middle of a hurricane._

The door slides open and reveals a somewhat disheveled Derek, clad in a t-shirt and simple grey sweats. A soft smile stretches across his lips and his hair sticks up wildly, probably not so different from Stiles’ own at the moment.

Behind him, the loft is lowly lit by the natural light of the moon streaming in through the large glass panes opposite to the door, the delicate glow bouncing off the floor and lighting Derek’s features from behind, making his harsh angles— the ones that Stiles has conditioned himself to associate with his offensive attitude and general disposition— softer. The sharp lines of his jaw are suddenly not as sharp as he remembers them, the emerald of his eyes still piercing as ever and— his hair, oh _god_, his hair. So soft he could run his fingers through it for hours—

Stiles would gladly continue spacing out except once he lets his eyes drift to Derek’s lips, they’re moving… which means he’s talking, and Stiles is _so_ far from listening. Because his brain is too preoccupied with this new inner monologue, too busy drooling over Derek’s bedhead to actually be in touch with reality.

_Shit_, he’s probably staring like an idiot—

“Stiles,“ Derek waves his hand in front of Stiles’ face, trying to get his attention, “Do you want something to drink?”

Stiles nods, “Yeah— sorry, I totally spaced.”

“It’s fine. You don’t have to apologize.” Derek’s reassurance slightly calms Stiles’ nerves. Emphasis on the _slightly_.

“How’d you know it was me? Knocking on the door.”

Derek pulls away from the door and starts down the stairs toward the kitchen, “Heard you coming up. Would’ve thought you were Scott if he still had asthma.”

Stiles cringes and lets out a quiet ‘oh’. He steps into the loft and rolls the door shut behind him, making sure he hears the soft click of the lock before turning away.

Once he’s made his way into the kitchen, Derek calls out, “I thought watching a movie would be a good distraction, but if you’d rather do something else, maybe we could go on another drive.“

“A movie is fine,” Stiles calls back. He decides that just hanging out by the door with his hands stuffed in his pockets is the cool thing to do.

Actually, he thinks it’s cool precisely until Derek walks back out of the loft’s kitchen holding two mugs and looks at him like he’s growing a small pair of bright pink horns— but honestly, would that even be surprising after all the shit they’ve been through? Derek seems to make the decision to overlook Stiles’ slightly odd/obviously nervous behavior, setting the mugs down on a dark wood coffee table and plopping down in the middle of a modern-looking leather couch, both pieces of furniture of which Stiles doesn’t remember ever being there.

_Since when had Derek’s loft even remotely resembled a livable space?_

Derek peers at Stiles over the back of the couch, “Do you want to come… sit down?”

“Oh— yeah. Sorry,” After toeing his shoes off and kicking them to the side, Stiles makes his way over to the couch and settles down next to Derek, making sure he leaves a couple inches between them. He doesn’t want to be the one to misinterpret this odd little… companionship they’ve begun. He tries to relax, taking a few deep breaths and consciously letting go of the tension built up in his muscles and slumping against the arm of the couch.

“I’m not really sure what you like, but I had some leftover cocoa mix from one of the winter pack meetings so I just used that.” Derek carefully picks up one of the two mugs and hands it to Stiles. Snorting, he proceeds to read the words printed in bold black font on the side of the warm mug now settled in his hands.

“_World’s raddest dad,_” he takes a peak at the second of the two mugs, the handle held loosely in Derek’s hand, and deadpans, “_Might be whiskey_.”

“Mhm…” Derek takes a small sip from his mug and grins. “Christmas gift from Cora.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

Nodding like a sage old man, Derek closes his eyes and shifts, like he’s trying to burrow himself further into the leather of the couch. His appearance— the messy bedhead, his clothes obviously rumpled from sleep, the expression of pure satisfaction and comfort slowly emerging across his features— is sobering. And, in quite a somber way, unfamiliar.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Derek’s eyes remain shut as he nonchalantly blows on the surface of his cocoa.

“Not really.”

“Okay.”

After almost a minute of comfortable silence, Derek’s eyes drift open and he carefully plucks a small black remote from where it sits on the arm of the couch, pressing a series of buttons until the screen of the TV before them lights up, the familiar setup of a Netflix profile popping onto the screen. Stiles almost has to choke back his surprise because Derek? With a Netflix account? _Is he in another dimension?_

They make it ten minutes through some cryptic 80’s comedy Derek randomly picked out of indecision before Stiles suggests _Spaceballs_ instead, to which Derek responds that it sounds like a terrible movie, but that he’ll watch it anyway if it’ll make Stiles happy.

Stiles thinks that if the lights weren’t so low, he’d be hiding the continuous rosy pink flush making itself right at home across his cheeks.

Once the movie ends, Derek admits that _ok, maybe it wasn’t that terrible after all,_ but if given the chance, he would _never_ watch it again. Risking death by a certain werewolf’s teeth and/or claws, Stiles then suggests the cheesy 1981 thriller, _An American Werewolf in London_.

“I can’t put my finger on it, but the title reminds me of someone… I swear, the name is on the tip of my tongue…” Stiles earns a small snort from Derek for that one.

Sometime through the movie, during a particularly mundane scene, Stiles can feel his eyelids begin to drift shut, the darkness of the loft not really helping him in the fight against his own unconsciousness. That and the fact that he’s pretty sure he accidentally slouched against Derek’s side at least ten minutes ago, his body contentedly absorbing the heat that basically radiates from Derek’s.

The movie’s background music is muffled in Stiles’ ears as he begins to slip into the fuzzy space between consciousness, not quite asleep, but not really awake either. He can feel Derek shifting, and he’s probably going to push Stiles off of him and tell him to re-examine his definition of a personal bubble—

Except now Derek’s arm is moving from where it rested between them to curl behind his back, one hand resting over Stiles’ hip and the other welcoming his head to rest peacefully on his chest, the soft beating of his heart comforting in Stiles’ ears.

Stiles wants to savor the contact, really take it in— because when will he ever get a chance like this again, cuddling with Derek Hale, a concept he hadn’t even considered relatively feasible until a few days prior with the newfound knowledge of Derek’s startling emotional capacity (the man is basically just a big cuddly teddybear with deadly claws)— but apparently only getting six hours of sleep in the past three days has had more of an effect on him than he predicted and the soft metronome of Derek’s heartbeat sends him into oblivious unconsciousness almost immediately.

Oblivious and _dreamless_, thank God.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> raise your hand if you're deprived of genuine human affection and attention
> 
> >:')


End file.
